Cold hands, warm heart
by AliasRecs
Summary: Um… I'm not sure what this is actually. There's a mission, and injuries, and a safehouse… This is a long one-parter. It is posted here in its entirety. Early Season 2.  AN : AliasRecs doesn't own this story, it was written by omg.
1. Chapter 1

I decided to publish some stories I read and liked. They can't be find online anymore (I think). I had them on my computer and I thought it would be nice to put them online ! I do not own these stories, this one was written by omg. If you are the author of this story and you're not okay about this, you can contact me and I'll delete it immediately ! I hope these great stories will make some people happy !

**Title:** Cold Hands, Warm Heart

**Author: **omg  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Timeline: **I'm thinking early Season 2, sometime before the whole quarantine in medical services.  
**Summary: **Um… I'm not sure what this is actually. There's a mission, and injuries, and a safehouse… **This is a long one-parter. It is posted here in its entirety.**  
**Disclaimer: **I did not create and do not own Alias or its characters. No infringement intended. See additional product disclaimers at the end of the story.  
**A/N: **If you've read my other stories you might have noticed they each have a central issue or theme, usually with serious undertones. Well, this one… not so much. I don't know what the heck it is. Not really angst, not really fluff. But I will tell you: if you don't like detail, you probably won't like this.

I hope you enjoy it!

**Cold Hands, Warm Heart**

For the third time in as many missions, it occurred to Sydney that she should perhaps reconsider her policy of going unarmed on her undercover missions.

"Boot Camp, we may have a slight problem," she said into her comm link. She had been on her way out of the office and research building, walking briskly through a lobby full of people attending a benefit being held for some benevolent purpose, probably to counteract all the malevolent secret dealings of the CEO. But now she chose to slow her steps until she had a better grasp of the situation. Rather than leave her face exposed, she turned her back on the crowd. While she waited for a response from Vaughn, she kept her eyes on the large window before her, using the reflection she saw there to scan the crowd of men and women in their formal attire.

"Go ahead, Syd."

"I just spotted Anna Espinosa."

"You call that slight?"

"Well, it could be worse; I could be freezing my ass off in the van with you."

"Very funny. Has she seen you?"

"I don't think so. I just spotted her coming in from the catering area. She's using the waitress cover tonight." Sydney's eyes followed the reflected image of her nemesis in the dark glass. "She's making her way toward LaRoche. She must still need to get the codes off of him."

"Well then, that puts us a few steps ahead of her. You've just got to get out the door, and you'll be home free."

"Yeah well, she's kind of between me and the door."

"Oh."

"Okay. Here's the plan. I'll try to stay out of sight until she gets the codes. Once she gets the codes, she'll make her way to the secured area, I'll make my way to the front door, and then I'll be—"

"What?"

"Busted."

"What?"

"Anna has at least one friend stationed by the front door."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"You think he'll recognize you?"

"Well, I broke his finger last year."

"Which one?"

"The little one on his right hand, I think."

"No, I mean, which guy? I'm trying to locate him on the security feed."

"Oh." Sydney turned her head a little to get a better view. "Standing to the left of the door, six foot three, two hundred twenty pounds, wavy blond hair. Tux, black tie, no vest. Chatting up the bimbo in the lime green dress." She glanced once more at the goon only to see that he was staring right back at her. She tried to nonchalantly look away, but she knew it was too late. It occurred to her that this was payback for the bimbo comment. She didn't think karma was supposed to work that quickly. "I've been made," she said a little less calmly than she had been speaking. She kept an eye on the reflection again. "He just signaled Anna."

"Okay. I'm on my way."

"No, you can't. She knows I work with Dixon. If she sees me with someone else she might get suspicious. K-Directorate finding out I'm a double is just as bad as SD-6 knowing." She followed Anna's progress and noticed she was speeding up in her approach toward LaRoche. "She's still going for the codes. She doesn't realize I already have the disk."

"Good. What about The Muscle?"

"He's making his way toward me. He looks like he wants to settle the score," she added, watching the man clenching the fingers of his right hand into a fist. For a split second, she realized that something didn't seem quite right, but she couldn't put her finger on it, and didn't have time to dwell on it now. "I don't know how many others are here. I've got to find another way out. I'm on the move." She turned and started walking back toward the door she had so recently exited. "I'm heading back toward the secured area. At least they won't be able to follow me until they get the codes. That'll give me a little time. Are the hallways still clear?" She paused near the alcove which led to the security door and while Vaughn checked the monitors in the van, she checked the room to make sure the angry Russian was the only one keeping an eye on her.

"Yes, you're clear."

As soon as she got the confirmation, Sydney slid into the alcove and used the keypad by the door to enter the first set of codes from memory. She heard the lock disengage and pushed the door open so that she could just barely slide through. She made sure it was closed completely and listened for the lock clicking back into place before she took off in a run down the long hallway. Intentionally heading in the direction opposite of LaRoche's office, she turned right at the next corner and then stopped for a few seconds to remove her shoes. With her shoes in one hand and her purse in the other, she set off again, this time a little faster, grateful that at least the floor was carpeted.

"Have I ever told you my theory about high heels?" she asked while trying to maintain a steady breathing rhythm.

"Maybe later."

"What? You've got something better to do?" She turned another corner.

"Yeah, I'm kinda busy." Sydney grinned, knowing Vaughn was having to switch between multiple cameras and multiple monitors. "Right at the next hallway, then the second hallway on the left. Anna is heading toward the security door. She must have the codes."

"Copy that." As Sydney turned right at the next hallway, she heard Vaughn's voice come through again.

"She's in the secured area. She's bringing The Muscle with her. Once they realize you're not in the office, they'll be looking for you."

Sydney kept running, trying to get as far as possible from LaRoche's office while getting closer to a safe exit.

"They just gained access to the office. Anna's going in, but the guy's heading back out into the hallway. He's armed, Syd."

Right now, Sydney was more concerned with the maze-like quality of the building. She took her second left. She hoped the maze would at least keep Anna and her goon occupied for a while, but she wondered how the workers ever found their way back to their offices. Just as she was imagining a trail of bread crumbs, Vaughn's voice sounded in her ear, giving her more directions.

"Right at the next – wait! Stop!"

Sydney froze. Her "normal person" instincts told her to scream "What?" but her spy instincts told her to keep her mouth shut just as she heard the sound of a door closing nearby. It sounded like it was coming from the hallway about twenty yards ahead and on her right, the hallway Vaughn had just told her to turn down.

"A guard just came out of an office and into that hallway. He's heading your way. He's maybe forty yards from the intersection of the two hallways."

Sydney hugged the right wall and did the quiet tip-toe run that had been so useful on many a previous mission, not to mention the one time she had snuck out of the house when she was sixteen. She tried to open a few office doors, but they were locked. A few feet from the intersection she realized she would have to face him, so she carefully placed her shoes and purse on the floor and pressed her back against the wall, waiting. She could hear the guard now, his pants making a kind of swishing sound. He started to hum.

"Five more feet," Vaughn whispered, as if he were in the hallway, too, and feared the guard might hear him.

His warning helped her time it perfectly. She saw the tip of the guard's black boot and flung her arm out, clothes-lining him. The humming stopped. Sydney looked down to see the guard slack-jawed and clearly knocked out. Retrieving her purse and shoes, she slipped her forearms under the guard's arms and started dragging him back the way he had come. Four doors down the hall she saw a sign indicating a supply closet. This door was unlocked so she pushed it open and entered, pulling the guard in with her while she propped open the door with one leg. She closed the door quietly behind her so she could search the guard for a weapon.

"No gun," she muttered. She did find an ASP baton*, though, and was about to leave the closet when something else caught her eye. She was staring jealously at the guard's military-style sweater, a new plan taking form, when Vaughn's voice burst in on her.

"Syd, come on! What are you doing in there? Get moving."

"How close is The Muscle?"

"He's on the other side of the building, but Anna's just exited the office and seems to be heading in the right direction so far."

"Keep an eye on them for me."

"What are doing?"

"I'm stripping the guard."

"What?"

"I can't risk walking around the building to the front where the cars are, so I'm going straight to the back of the property, then I'm going to circle back through the forest to the van. I can't do that in this dress in twenty-degree weather."

"Okay. Just hurry."

She already had the guard stripped down to his underwear, undershirt, and socks. Unfortunately for Sydney, said underwear were bikini briefs. As she peeled off her dress and pulled on his pants, she couldn't help thinking that the color of his underwear was an exact match for the bimbo's lime green dress. She rolled the waist of the pants so that they wouldn't fall off or trip her. As her head was emerging from the neck of the sweater, she noticed a box of discs, each one packed separately in a plastic case, on a nearby shelf. She pulled one out, her eyes searching the rest of the shelves for one more item. Finding it and grabbing the duct tape from its shelf, she let out a quick blessing of all things MacGyver, then used the tape to bind the guard's feet and hands before putting a strip over his mouth for good measure. She switched the new disk with the one in her purse and used the tape to secure the original in what she hoped would be a safer place. She stuffed her dress and shoes behind the shelves before pulling on the heavy boots, which were too big but would have to do. After whispering a quiet apology to the guard (mostly for the humiliation he would experience at having his choice in underwear become common knowledge around the office), she grabbed her purse and the baton and turned toward the door.

"Vaughn, is it clear?"

"Yeah, but hurry, Anna's making quick progress. Turn right into the hallway, then left the first chance you get. The exit is at the end."

Sydney opened and closed the door as quietly as possible. With one look behind her, she started down the hall as fast as she dared, hoping not to make too much noise since she knew that Anna wasn't too far away.

"Syd, I don't have access to the cameras outside. You'll have to take your chances."

"Copy that." She approached the door and, hoping it wouldn't sound an alarm, pushed the bar to open the door a few inches. With no blaring alarm and no guards in sight, she slid through the opening and closed it quietly behind her. The cold air hit her full-force and she was faced with a large expanse of snow-covered ground that eventually was broken up by a thin forest. Beyond the trees were mountains, a gray sky, and a full moon. "I'm outside. Making my way to the tree line." She tried to walk casually, as if she were on patrol, hoping that any other guards in the distance would assume she was one of them. The boots sank a few inches into the snow with each step. She could see her breath drifting through the air in front of her. After only a minute she could already feel the cold taking its toll on her fingertips.

"Anna's almost at the exit," Vaughn informed her.

She set out in a run, more concerned now about her nemesis than about any potential guards seeing her. It didn't take her long to realize that the ill-fitting boots were making her clumsy and slowing her down, so she kicked them off, knowing she would later regret the decision, but thinking that she might not live to regret anything if she didn't pick up some speed. She flinched when her bare feet hit the snow, but took off running again, this time a little faster, but still not anywhere near her usual speed.

"She's at the door," her handler warned. "Are you clear?"

"No. Still thirty yards out." She turned her head just in time to see Anna stepping out into the snow. Hoping that Anna wouldn't shoot for fear of drawing the guards, she kept struggling forward, trying to put some distance between them. One more glance back showed her that Anna was closing in on her quickly. Apparently, being trained in Russia had its advantages, while Sydney's latest disadvantage was that she couldn't seem to catch her breath. She immediately knew the reason and cursed herself and her stupid plan. Instead of ensuring a safe escape, it had resulted in her being frozen, barefoot in the snow, unable to breathe, with an undoubtedly armed enemy much too close for comfort. She should have just dumped the guard and run straight for the exit. Then again, she still would have been exposed to the elements, practically barefoot in her strappy heels, even more unarmed than she was now. But she wouldn't have wasted so much time, and she might have been safe by now, with Vaughn in the van, and she would have been able to breathe, and … She wondered why she couldn't feel her feet anymore.

She was only ten feet away from the tree line when she fell, feeling very much like a ditz in a horror film. Anna was so close that Sydney could now hear her footsteps. She got to her feet just as she heard Anna's voice.

"Don't move."

"Crap," she heard herself say under her breath.

She heard Vaughn's sharp intake of breath. "Syd?"

While she still had her back to Anna, she slid most of the baton's handle up into the sleeve of her sweater.

"Turn around," Anna growled. Sydney complied and saw her rival less than twenty feet away, gun aimed. "Give me the disk."

Sydney watched the white fog of Anna's breath dissipate into the air before answering, "I don't think so." Her lungs had decided to cooperate, but she still felt short of breath. Anna raised an eyebrow and made a show of cocking her pistol. "You won't shoot me."

She heard Vaughn's response in her ear first. "Oh God. Sydney, I'm on my way."

"You overestimate my fondness for you," Anna said with an evil grin.

"If you shoot, the guards will hear the shot. You and I both know you don't want that. Besides, I think you'd miss having me around."

"I don't think I would grieve too long. Enough chatting now. Give me the disk."

Sydney knew the real disk was safe, so she was tempted to just toss the purse, fake disk and all, but Anna would see right through her if she handed it over without too much of a fight. She would have to keep up appearances, but she knew that in her current state she wouldn't last long once they came to blows. Still, she had at least one trick hidden up her sleeve, and it was a doozy.

"Well, we seem to be at an impasse. You can't shoot me, and I'm sure as hell not going to just walk over there and give it to you. If you want it, you'll have to come and get it," she said, wiggling the purse in her left hand, hoping that would get Anna's attention without raising too much suspicion. Anna narrowed her eyes but didn't move. She was probably calculating her options, of which Sydney hoped there were very few. "Come on Anna. It's cold. I can't feel my feet. Let's get this over with."

Anna finally took a few cautious but confident steps forward, looking as if she expected Sydney to run any second now. Playing her role, Sydney turned slightly and took a few quick steps toward the tree line, which prompted Anna to break into a run, coming right at her. Instead of picking up speed, Sydney let Anna catch up with her, which actually wasn't difficult considering her own burning lungs and numb feet. When Anna was just a few feet behind her, Sydney jerked her right arm straight and flicked her wrist. The baton extended to its full length. She'd never heard a better sound than the click of each piece sliding into place. In one fluid motion, she spun around and slammed the baton into Anna's forearm, causing her to cry out in pain and drop the gun into the snow. She recovered quickly, though, and Sydney's next shot, which was aimed at her opponent's other shoulder, was only a glancing blow.

Sydney's grip on the baton was suffering due to the cold, and her lungs were screaming for air. She needed to end this now. She took one kick to the ribs and a punch skimmed her temple before she swung the baton at Anna's upper leg, bringing her down to one knee. Unfortunately, as she pulled the baton back once more, it slipped from her frozen hand and went sailing into the forest. Anna took the opportunity to spin on her downed knee and sweep a leg at Sydney's feet, which sent her flailing through the air. It was then, in mid-air, that Sydney saw the perfect time to put the final step of her plan into action. She let the purse fly out of her hand, having the presence of mind to aim the toss away from the tree line. She landed hard on her back which, incidentally, didn't help her breathing problem. She watched Anna's eyes follow the trajectory of the purse. By the time the purse landed, they were both staring at it. Anna glanced back at Sydney, who made a show of scrambling to her feet. Just as she hoped, Anna aimed a kick at her chest. Sydney didn't resist. She let the kick send her backwards, intending to either feign being knocked out or to slink off into the forest while Anna focused on the purse.

Her intentions, however, were no match for the plan nature had in store. Instead of landing safely in the snow, Sydney found herself skidding backwards on a downward slope of hard-packed snow at the edge of the tree line. She tried to dig her hands and feet into the snow to stop herself, but before she knew it, she felt cold air replacing the snow beneath her. She had run out of ground. She was soaring. Then she was dropping. In reality it had only been a second or two, six or seven feet at the most, but it felt like an eternity. She prepared herself for weightlessness. She was waiting for the freefall. Just when the image of Alice in the rabbit hole started creeping up on her, but before it really had a chance to take shape, she hit hard ground, a rocky embankment. She rolled. She felt skin tearing. She came to a sudden stop on level ground. She was on her back. She looked up into the snowy treetops. Everything hurt. Everything else was cold. Someone asked for her by name. She was hearing things. No one in the forest knew her.

Oddly enough, the last thing she thought of before she passed out was The Muscle's hand clenching into a fist. She realized what it was that had seemed strange. She closed her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

"His pinky's still crooked."

That was the first intelligible thing Vaughn heard after the thrashing sound.

He had been running non-stop in the minutes since he had left the van, making good time despite the snow and cold, and partially thanks to the full moon. He was dodging trees and boulders, scampering up and down small hills. He focused on staying near the edge of the forest, so he could keep his bearings based on the building's location, but deep enough in that he wouldn't be seen. He tried to keep his breathing steady. Sydney's breathing sounded shallow. Through his earpiece he could hear her egging Anna on, challenging her to take the disk. He had wanted to scream at her, to ask her for an explanation, to know what the hell she was doing. Instead he made a conscious decision to trust her. Besides, she wouldn't be able to answer him anyway.

As he ran and his throat started burning, he decided that he was grateful for his gloves, even though the fingertips were cut off. He was grateful for his wool stocking cap, even though it itched. Mostly he was grateful for his gun even though it bounced lightly against his ribs in his shoulder holster. The weight was not so much a burden as a reassurance. He was hoping Anna would be too wary of the noise to actually shoot, but he had no such qualms. He would shoot if it meant protecting Sydney. Ever the boy scout, he had grabbed a silencer on his way out of the van.

He could tell the moment blows were exchanged. There was a strange metallic sound he couldn't place, followed by a series of thumps and grunts and swallowed cries. Then it stopped and there was a smooth sound, completely out of place, strangely similar to a puck gliding across the ice. Then there was howling wind, which stopped just as abruptly as it had started, causing him to stop as well. Then a thud and something crunching. It sounded like someone was thrashing wildly through the underbrush, hitting every limb and twig along the way. That's when he knew he was close; he could hear it in his earpiece, but could also hear it floating on the air in front of him. On full alert, he looked around and spoke her name, hoping she would answer back. The only response was a moan in his earpiece. He tried again.

"Sydney?"

And then, the first intelligible thing, if you could call it that: "His pinky's still crooked."

And then nothing else.

He scrambled up a hill and after less than a minute of running, he spotted her. The black security uniform stood out against the white snow. If he weren't already freezing, his blood would have run cold.

There was no sign of Anna or the guards. He rushed to Sydney and kneeled down at her side. He was relieved to see her breath white against the cold air, but it came in short spurts. He said her name but she didn't respond. Other than a slight rise and fall of her chest, she wasn't moving. His first thought was that Jack Bristow would kill him for this. He looked at the surrounding area, the broken tree limbs, the snow smeared with dirt, and realized that she had rolled down the hill. He looked for obvious injuries, but aside from a few small scratches on her face and hands, there was nothing visible. He was perplexed by her bare feet, finding them a shade of purple that was definitely not normal. He took off his stocking cap and wrapped her feet in it.

"Syd?" He felt her pulse, while the other hand brushed some hair out of her face. He raised an eyelid, but couldn't remember what he was supposed to be looking for there. "Syd? Can you hear me?" He was scared to move her. "Syd? Wake up." He put one hand on her cheek. She was even colder than he was. He grabbed her hand and squeezed, probably harder than he should have.

She moved her legs. Then her arms. (Maybe Jack wouldn't kill him after all.) She groaned. She squeezed her eyes closed tighter.

"Syd? Can you hear me? I need you to wake up."

Her eyes opened a crack and he finally heard her voice again. "Joe…"

_Who the hell is Joe?_

"No, Syd, it's me, Michael." That didn't sound right, even to his own ears, so he added, "Vaughn."

"Joe-" she tried to take a breath. "Joey's… Pizza."

He almost laughed. "Yeah, that's right. Joey's Pizza."

"Wrong… number." Her breathing was ragged, her head lolled to the side, and her eyes were closing again.

"No, Syd. I need you to keep your eyes open for me, okay? Stay awake. Can you tell me where you're hurt?"

Her teeth started chattering. "C-c-cold."

"I know." He just barely stopped himself from adding "baby" to the end of that. "You're in the snow." He took off his army jacket and laid it over her torso. "We'll get you out of here and get you warmed up. But I need to know if you're injured before I move you."

"My head."

"There's no blood, but you must have knocked it pretty good."

"Can't… can't breathe. Ribs."

He feared the worst: broken ribs, a punctured lung. He moved the jacket down to cover her legs and started moving his hands along her ribcage, beginning at the bottom, feeling each rib through the sweater. When she said "no," he didn't stop.

"I have to see if they're broken, Syd."

"No," she said again, and he was nothing but shocked when her shaking hand grabbed his and pushed it under the sweater, putting it on her bare stomach. She pulled his hand up, higher, up her ribs, higher, and suddenly he felt seventeen again. Before the image of an eighteen year-old Sally Murphy had a chance to pop up in his mind, his fingers hit something other than skin. And not satin, and not silk. Confused, he looked at Sydney's face. She pulled up her sweater to reveal what appeared to be duct tape, wrapped in several layers around her rib cage. For a second he had no idea why it was there, but then he saw the disk in its little plastic case, taped to her side. She was struggling to breathe. She lifted her head. "Too… tight. Cut it."

"Right," he nodded and pulled out his pocket knife. Trying to ignore the black fabric that was peeking out at him just slightly north of the tape, he peeled up an edge of the tape right in the middle of her torso, a few inches below her sternum, held it between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, brought the knife toward it, and – stopped. "Uh… don't move." He didn't wait for a response. He slid the tip of the knife under the edge of the tape and pulled up, slicing through it quickly. He put the knife to the side and looked up to Sydney's face. Her eyes were closed again. "Syd?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm gonna peel it off. Ready?" She nodded, eyes still closed. "Quick like a band-aid, okay?" Another nod. He held her skin taut, grabbed one edge of the tape and jerked it to the side. She groaned. "Sorry. Other side now." He repeated the process. She released another groan. He looked down and the sight was painful. Her skin was red, raw, and sticky where the tape had been. It was soon replaced by a much better sight: her ribcage expanding with a shaky but deep breath. "Better?"

She nodded her head again and whispered her thanks.

"Okay." He pulled the sweater back down before pocketing the disk and his knife. "We gotta go. Can you sit up?" He grabbed her arms and gently pulled her to a sitting position. He picked up his jacket and went to put it around her shoulders. He stopped when he saw that the snow behind her was red. "s***." Looking at her back, he noticed that two ragged gashes were torn in the sweater which was now soaked from the snow; the skin showing through the holes was ripped and bloody. He figured there was no point in mentioning it. Either she already knew it was there, or she was so numb she couldn't feel it. He helped her feed her arms through the sleeves of the jacket. She hissed and moaned at the motion.

"Ugh. Everything hurts."

"You're gonna be okay, but we need to get you out of here. Come on." He helped her stand up, which is when he remembered her bare feet, and he knew she wasn't likely to make it the mile to the van on foot. Still, they couldn't risk the short-cut through LaRoche's property. They didn't have a choice. With one hand supporting her around her waist, he bent down to pick up the wool cap. He shoved it in his pocket, pulled one of Sydney's arms over his shoulder, and started walking. They had gone maybe five steps when her voice stopped them.

"Vaughn?"

He looked at her. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"For—"

And then she passed out.

He caught her before she hit the ground, and since he had seen this coming, he wasted no time in picking her up and setting off again toward the van. As he carried her, he couldn't help but think that this mission had gone very differently than he had expected. He hadn't expected Anna and K-Directorate. He hadn't expected to have his hands up Sydney's shirt. He hadn't expected to be carrying her through the forest. As many times as he had imagined sweeping her off her feet and walking off with her in his arms, he certainly hadn't pictured her in another man's clothes, duct tape dangling from her sides, with a dirty and scratched face and purple lips. And in his imagination, she had almost always been conscious. No, this was in no way romantic.

He had been walking for ten minutes. He was probably halfway to the van. His legs and arms were burning with exertion. She wasn't heavy, but carrying anything for this long in these conditions was difficult. He found himself wishing Weiss were there. Weiss, who lived off beer and take-out, who almost never worked out, but still managed to be strong as an ox. Vaughn was almost glad Sydney was unconscious; at least she couldn't see him struggling to carry her.

He decided to carry her over his shoulder for a while, and when he started to shift her to change her position, she stirred. She looked up at him for a second, closed her eyes, and murmured "I like my picture frame," before letting her head droop again.

It was all he needed to find his second wind. He smiled, gently placed her over his shoulder, and continued his hike. They arrived at the van without incident. He wrapped Sydney in a blanket in the back, radioed the JTF with a status report, put the heater on full-blast, and headed to the nearest safehouse, tucked away into the foothills. 


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they had arrived at the safehouse thirty minutes later, Sydney still hadn't woken up, and Vaughn was beginning to worry. A lower-level agent had called with a message from Kendall: the doctor being sent by the CIA station chief in Paris wouldn't reach them until morning.

As he carried Sydney from the van to the only bedroom, she stirred and woke for a few minutes, which he took to be a good sign. She asked where they were and mumbled a few things about the disk before falling asleep again. At this point, he wasn't sure if all the passing out was from a concussion, the pain, or the cold. He decided that his priorities were to get her warm and bandaged up. He filled a bowl with warm water and carried it back to the bedroom. He tried to wake her with little success. He finally managed to get his jacket off of her, but that was as far as he got before he realized he was about to undress Sydney Bristow. That thought alone was almost as paralyzing as seeing her still body lying in the snow. No, the evening was certainly not turning out as he had expected. Judging by her current state, he was going to do this without her knowledge, permission, or participation. Again, not the way he had imagined it. Jack might just kill him after all.

As he unrolled the waistband of the baggy pants, he tried to think of anything but Sydney. The button taunted him. He reprimanded himself. He was an adult, for God's sake! A professional. He could do this. He unbuttoned the pants and moved to the zipper. Of course, the thought of being purely professional made him think of the picture frame, because of which he had been accused of being unprofessional. This made him think of Haladki, something he never thought would cross his mind while undressing Sydney, much less any other woman. If only Haladki could see them now. He shook his head. Barnett would have a field day with this.

He started to pull the pants down. He tried very hard not to notice the black satin string bikini. He tried very hard not to notice how thin the straps were. He tried very hard not to enjoy this. He -

"Hey."

- froze. His hands were just below her hips. He waited for it – "it" being the punch to the face he expected any second now. It didn't happen. He looked up at her.

"I lost my shoes."

"I noticed," he nodded back.

"I'm so tired." She closed her eyes again.

"No, wait, Syd." He let go of her pants and moved to the head of the bed, where he lightly tapped her cheek with his hand. "I need you to stay awake. Can you do that? I need your help."

"I'm cold, Vaughn."

"I know. We need to get you out of these wet clothes before you freeze." He could have kicked himself. _We need to get you out of these wet clothes?_ It was the scummiest line in history, straight out of one of those romance novels his aunt used to read. Sydney didn't seem to notice though, because she grabbed onto Vaughn's arm to pull herself up, wincing at the pain. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, but otherwise made no move to help, so Vaughn took it as a sign of permission. He kneeled to finish pulling off her pants and found that it was for some reason easier with her awake. Sure, it was a hundred times more awkward, but he felt less… less like a complete slime ball.

She seemed to become more aware of what was going on. He prompted her to put her feet in the warm water. He indicated that she should raise her arms, which she did with a great amount of pain, judging by the expression on her face. The sweater was removed with some difficulty; the duct tape was still partially attached to her back and the loose ends were stuck to the sweater, causing it to pull at her skin. The sweater was sticking to her wounds, which didn't help. (He tried very hard not to notice the strapless black satin bra, which appeared to be a match for the black satin string bikini. Yes, the very same black satin string bikini he had tried so hard not to notice earlier.) She started shivering. She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned forward, almost doubling over while he reached behind her to remove the duct tape. The glue had loosened somewhat from the wet snow, so he peeled it off easily and slowly. By the time he was done her head was resting on his shoulder. She had goose bumps. He did too, but he didn't think they were there for the same reason.

"Can you feel your feet yet?" It seemed like a strange question to be asking a half-naked woman. The half-naked woman nodded. He dried off her feet with a towel, pulled down the sheets, and helped lift her legs under the covers. He had almost expected her to refuse his help, but she didn't; it worried him almost as much as her physical injuries. He pointed at the wall. "If you'll turn that way I'll clean those cuts and patch you up." He turned, crossed the hall, and retrieved the first aid kit from the bathroom. He also took the opportunity to bump the heater up a few settings before returning to the room. "The doctor will—" choke. There was Sydney's bare back. No black satin. He was suddenly quite certain he wouldn't make it through the night without having a heart attack. At least she had been merciful enough to remove it when he wasn't there to watch. Adult, professional, he reminded himself. He cleared his throat. "The doctor will be here in the morning."

"I don't need a doctor, Vaughn," she said. She was lying flat on her stomach and her face was turned away from him, toward the wall.

"Sydney, you probably have a concussion. I'm not letting you fly home without having someone check you out first. If we didn't have to worry about SD-6 I would have taken you straight to the hospital." He prepared a cotton ball. "This might sting."

She tensed and sucked in a breath when it touched her skin. "I'm fine."

"Oh yeah? How many fingers am I holding up?" he joked, holding the fingers behind her back so she couldn't see them.

"Two."

_Now how the hell did she guess that?_

"Vaughn, I've had plenty of concussions before."

"That's what worries me. Anyway, he's already been called."

"What about SD-6?"

"Kendall said he'd call your dad. He'll cover for you. If he has any problems they'll let us know." They remained quiet while he continued cleaning the gashes. Finally he was ready to put on the bandages. "I don't think they need stitches." It was a good thing too, because he didn't think his hands were steady enough to stitch her up now. "We'll let the doctor decide tomorrow."

"No missions with a backless dress too soon, I guess." She was joking around, but her voice was far away.

"No, not for a while I'm afraid." He taped the gauze pads down and cleaned up the first aid kit. Sydney still hadn't said anything. He thought she had fallen asleep. "Syd?" he whispered.

"It was stupid," she said quietly.

"What was?"

"I don't know what I was thinking, wasting all that time." Her lips trembled, so he pulled the covers up to her neck. He went to a closet and rummaged around for another blanket.

"It was a good spur-of-the-moment plan. It just didn't work out perfectly. Sometimes that happens. And remember, you got the disk." He finally found a blanket and shook it out before draping it over her. "If anything, it's my fault. I should have planned for K-Directorate."

"You couldn't have known," she mumbled. The sleep was starting to take over her voice. "You're right, though. It was a good plan. Would have worked, too, if the boots had fit better."

He chuckled. "Yeah, next time take out a smaller guard."

"I wrapped the tape too tight. And if it hadn't been so damn cold…" Her breathing was getting deeper. Her eyes were fluttering closed. "Why'd you have to bring me to the French Alps?"

"Next time I'll make sure the bad guys are someplace warm."

The pillow was muffling her response. He thought it was something like "sounds good."

"I'm gonna run out to the van, Syd."

"'kay. Careful…"

When he came back with their duffle bags and told her he'd brought her clothes inside, she didn't answer. He leaned over the bed and saw that her eyes were closed. He added another blanket to the pile and let her sleep.

=====

Four hours later Vaughn sat in a hard-backed wooden chair, thinking about his mother. He had carried the chair from the kitchen to the bedroom, where he now had it leaning on its two rear legs against the wall. He was stationed close to the headboard, at what would probably be labeled an emotionally-attached distance.

He could hear his mother's voice, as clear as if she were standing there, telling the teenage version of himself (for the eighty-second time) to "put that chair down on all four legs and sit in it properly." She had always claimed that he would ruin the chair by wearing out the legs unevenly. He had loved to tease her by arguing that he was evening them out again every time he dropped back down onto the front legs. She usually responded with something along the lines of "When you fall and split your head open, I won't feel sorry for you." He had been doing his Calculus homework, vigorously erasing a particularly nasty problem, when the chair, apparently fed up with years of abuse, finally chose to side with his mother. He and the chair crashed to the ground. She turned around holding a dish towel and, after being assured that he was okay, laughed until she cried. He smiled at the memory now, but at the time he had blushed so furiously that his mother had walked to the table (where he and the chair were now solidly situated on all four legs, trying to ignore her), tousled his hair, and kissed his forehead before leaving the kitchen in a fit of giggles. There was now one chair at his mother's kitchen table that wobbled more than the others.

Of course, he had not spent the entire four hours thinking about his mother. He had dozed on and off. He had spoken to a worried and curious Jack. (Needless to say, Vaughn conveniently failed to mention both Sydney's current state of undress and the means by which she had gotten that way.) He had been delighted (and a little bit terrified, considering her occupation) to learn that Sydney talked in her sleep. He had sighed at "wrong number," and laughed at "gorillas in monkey suits." He had wondered long and hard about "no more giant candy corn." (He wasn't sure if she was disappointed that there was no more, or adamant that there should be no more.) He had frowned at a very serious "run faster." He had spent a full ten minutes pacing, telling himself that it was wishful thinking, that he was hearing things, that it had not in fact been his name that had just escaped her sleeping lips.

Near the four hour mark Sydney started to stir. She had been sleeping so deeply that she hadn't moved until that point. And since she hadn't moved until that point, it hadn't previously occurred to Vaughn that when she did move, he would get an eyeful. That thought and his subsequent rush to prevent said eyeful (and thereby prevent inevitable heart attack) nearly resulted in a repeat performance of The Kitchen Chair Incident. By the time he had managed to regain his balance and settle all four legs of the chair on the floor, Sydney was pushing herself up on her forearms.

"Syd, wait!" he choked out at the same time his hand applied downward pressure to her bare shoulder. She shot him a questioning look. "You're um… you're…" He cleared his throat and pointed in the general direction of her torso, feeling very much like a complete imbecile.

"Oh." She got the point and flattened back down to the mattress. "Sorry."

"It's okay. I'll, um, get your clothes." He crossed the room to pick up her bag and by the time he walked back she had the sheets and blankets wrapped firmly around her shoulders. She was struggling to sit up on the bed. "So, how are you feeling?"

"Ugh." She finally achieved a sitting position. "Like I've been hit by a truck."

He put the bag on the bed next to her and chuckled. "Have you ever been hit by a truck?"

"Yes, actually, once," she said, rummaging through her bag.

"Oh. Of course you have. What was I thinking?" She had the decency to grin. He noticed that the bruises were starting to show up on her arms. "You should clean those scrapes on your face when you're done. The first aid kit is on the dresser," he said, pointing at the old piece of furniture in the corner. He was surprised to hear her release a frustrated sigh. "Something wrong?"

"No, not really. I was just looking for something I wouldn't have to pull over my head. I thought I had packed something like that, but…"

"Oh." Should he, or shouldn't he? He probably shouldn't… but he did anyway. "Well, I have an oxford if you want it."

"No, Vaughn, you don't have to—"

"It's okay, really." He went to get the shirt from his bag. "I mean, if you don't mind that it's not clean. I wore it on the plane over."

"Vaughn, really…" She was shaking her head, not making eye contact.

"Syd, it's just a shirt. Look, I'll just leave it here, in case you change your mind."

"Thanks."

"No problem. Call me if you need anything." He left, closing the door behind him. When he was no longer in her presence, he realized he was starving. He searched the meager contents of the kitchen cabinets before deciding on the ultimate safe house food: canned soup. He was giving the broken can opener a stern talking-to when he heard the bedroom door open, then the sound of shuffling footsteps, followed closely by what he assumed to be the bathroom door closing. About five minutes later, just as he finally removed the lid of the can of soup, he heard a crash. Seconds later he knocked on the door. "Sydney?"

"Dammit" was the response that came from the other side of the door. It was not exactly the response he was looking for.

"Syd, are you okay?"

"Yeah." She sounded defeated.

When she opened the door he saw the contents of the first aid kit scattered on the floor. He also saw his blue oxford. On Sydney Bristow. She was wearing other things, too, like some flannel pajama pants and some socks, but who cared about those when she was wearing his shirt? He was suddenly very glad Weiss wasn't there after all. She had washed the dirt off her face and combed her hair. He reminded himself to breathe. She grimaced and kept one hand on the wall as she crouched down to pick up the supplies.

"Here, let me," he said as he bent down reaching for a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

"I've got it," she argued, fumbling a pair of tweezers and scissors.

"Sydney, let me do it before you hurt yourself."

"I'm not gonna hurt—"

"That's an order. Please, sit down." He grinned, but she rolled her eyes. She sat on the closed toilet lid, looking sufficiently pissed. He had a plan to change that. "So I guess it didn't stink too bad."

"What?"

"The shirt."

"Oh." She smiled. "No. It's fine. Thank you." She ran a hand down the front of the shirt. When she got to the bottom she played with the hem. "I'm sorry about—"

"It's okay," he said, waving her apology off. He had finally gathered all the supplies and put the case in the sink. "It's a little big though," he smiled, motioning to the long sleeves that were covering her hands.

He was grateful to hear her chuckle. "Yeah, just a little."

He wet a cotton ball with alcohol and indicated that she should turn her cheek to the side. When he touched the first scratch she cringed and he found himself making a face, too.

"So you don't like to let other people take care of you, huh?" he said jokingly, as if it were news. She didn't respond right away, but when she did, he certainly wasn't ready for the answer.

"Danny used to complain about that." He froze for a split second before he continued on to the next scratch. He hoped she didn't notice. "And to think, he didn't know the half of it."

"What do you mean?"

"All the bumps and bruises and stuff I had to hide from him. Hard to explain mission-related injuries to someone who doesn't know you go on missions."

"Yeah."

"How am I going to explain this to SD-6?" She let a sigh escape.

"We'll figure something out. Besides, lots of rest, some aspirin, some IcyHot, and you'll be good as new."

"Says the man who's forcing me to see a doctor." That one made him laugh out loud. "So how come you're so good at this?"

"At what?"

"Taking care of people. Do you have some kids hidden away somewhere, Agent Vaughn?"

"No. Unless you wanna count Donovan and Weiss." They shared a laugh.

"So how'd you get your practice? Spend a lot of time taking care of drunk girlfriends in college?"

"What?"

"Well, my memory may be a little fuzzy, but it seems to me that you knew what you were doing last night."

_Holy crap._ He couldn't believe she'd just said that. He had figured they had an unspoken agreement not to mention last night. Ever. He gave her a nervous glance. "Uh, I'm gonna plead the fifth." He wished he could hide the color rising on his cheeks.

"It's just instinct, huh?"

"I guess. I mean, I made my extra money mowing lawns, not babysitting." Her questions had caused him to think, though, and as he put a band-aid on her cheekbone he found himself speaking. "I do have a younger cousin, though. When I was a teenager I used to spend a week every summer with my aunt and uncle. They had a son who was fifteen years younger than I was. I guess I helped out with him a little bit, although I distinctly remember avoiding all dirty diapers." She giggled, which made his smile expand to its full width. They were quiet again while he put the first aid kit away. Apparently he was shaking his head without realizing it, because she asked him what was wrong. "Nothing, it's just… I just realized he's twenty now. That makes me old."

"Oh yeah, you're ancient," she joked, rolling her eyes.

"Well, I felt it after all that running in the snow. Tomorrow you'll be the one carrying me."

She blushed and looked down at the hem of the shirt (his shirt!) where her fingers were playing with the extra buttons. "Thanks," she looked up at him, "for taking care of me."

"My pleasure." He reached out a hand to help her up. They exited the bathroom. "I have no idea what time it is in L.A., but I'm starving. Want something to eat?"

"No, thanks. I think, actually, I'm just going to go back to sleep."

"Alright." He helped her to the bed where she found a comfortable position which didn't put too much pressure on her back. He walked to the door but before he closed it he turned and said, "Sleep tight." It was something he had most definitely never said to a fellow agent. 


	4. Chapter 4

=====

They were somewhere over the Midwest when it hit him. It hadn't hit him when he was eating soup at three in the morning at the safehouse's kitchen table (all four chair legs on the floor). It hadn't hit him while he slept on the old couch that had been too short for his legs. It hadn't hit him when Sydney shot him a self-satisfied I-told-you-so glare after getting the "all clear" from the doctor. It hadn't hit him when they stealthily boarded the private CIA jet. Admittedly, it had started to creep up on him somewhere over the Eastern seaboard, after he awoke from a disturbing dream he couldn't remember. But it didn't hit him full-force until he was somewhere over the Midwest, typing the mission report on his laptop. He was running the mission through his head like a movie, and he suddenly realized that he could have lost her without knowing. So he did what seemed to him to be a perfectly reasonable thing. He woke her up.

"What's your theory on high heels?"

"What?"

"Your theory on high heels – what is it?"

"Men invented high heels so that women can't run fast enough to get away from them." He smiled but she looked at him like she was waiting for something else. He just sat back in his seat, relieved. "Did you wake me up just to ask me that?" She didn't seem to agree with him on the whole "perfectly reasonable" thing.

"Yeah."

"_Vaughn_…" It was a whine that implied "are you crazy?"

"What? Okay. I'm sorry, but… you owed me anyway."

"I owed you? For what?"

"Didn't I take good care of you?"

"Well, yes, but you didn't give me much choice."

"There's gratitude… I even gave you the shirt off my back." That comment earned him a groan while the shirt itself, which was tucked away in his bag, had earned the label of The Shirt That Sydney Wore, a.k.a. Clothing Item Never To Be Washed Again.

A few minutes later she interrupted his typing with a question.

"Hey Vaughn?"

"Yeah?"

"Did I ever thank you for the picture frame?"

He had a vision of her in his arms, purple lips and all. He smiled.

"Yeah, yeah you did."

A few more minutes passed.

"Vaughn?"

"Yeah?"

She was staring pensively out the window as she spoke. "I think this mission might have traumatized me."

He turned serious. "What?"

"Well… the guard?"

"Yeah?"

She finally looked at him and said, "Bikini briefs. Lime green."

**THE END**

***** I've been thinking that maybe the general public (or the fanfiction-reading public) might not be familiar with an ASP Baton. It is a type of police baton. ASP refers to the company that developed (and I suppose produces) them. It is a telescoping baton. When it is closed, it is the size of a billy club. With a strong flick of the wrist, the sections of it, which fit inside the handle while the baton is closed, slide out and snap into place, extending the baton to its full length. (Picture a pirate's telescope or a radio antenna.) You might remember it from the movie _Out of Sight_ (George Clooney/Jennifer Lopez). J. Lo's character uses one to deal with the jerk at Mozelle's house. "You wanted to tussle, we tussled."

**Additional disclaimers:** I have no affiliation with ASP™ or their batons. Also, I don't own IcyHot or band-aids (which is a brand name, if I'm not mistaken), unless you count the stuff in my medicine cabinet.

**A/N:** So, yeah, it was kinda… um, pointless action followed by excessive use and abuse of the unresolved sexual tension thing. Or, to be more accurate, action created and manipulated with the sole purpose of establishing a situation of UST. Yeah, I could have just left the whole mission out, but I needed the practice writing action anyway. Sorry about the crazy changes in tense and careless grammar and punctuation. Usually I'm more careful about that. This time I'm lazy. Hope you enjoyed it anyway.


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